


Out of Balance

by ChloShow (orphan_account)



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Attempted Kidnapping, Attempted Sexual Assault, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Origin Story, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:38:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5273384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ChloShow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanzee leaves home as a young boy, looking for a new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He always felt his existence might have been a mistake, and overhearing his parents argue that night confirmed his suspicions. They never wanted to get married, they never wanted him.

No one would miss him if he left. His parents could separate without a kid chaining then together. He could find people who appreciated him for who he was. There was only one logical thing to do to make everyone’s life easier: disappear.

***

He left two days later on Monday. 5AM.

  
The pack containing all the belongings he could feasibly carry, which was about equal to the amount of things he actually owned, included clothes, needle and thread, jerky, a map of North Dakota cut from one of the schoolhouse’s textbooks, and a backup knife unless the one on his hip were to falter or malfunction.

On Saturday he’d tested how long his absence would go unnoticed. By midnight with no visible signs of worry from inside his home, he decided to make himself known, trudging off to bed. However, a thought struck him as he drifted off to sleep, deciding to replicate his test with one small alteration to see how much of a head start he’d have against any (hypothetical) search parties.  That Sunday he’d tested how long his absence would go unnoticed after not having completed his chores. By 5PM, his mother was calling his name.

Although he ran these tests over the weekend, the results would translate onto the weekday with a few more hours cushion, seeing as his parents would expect him to do his chores sometime after he returned from school. If he counted right, he had at least a 13-hour head start against anyone noticing his disappearance, and depending on whether or not he could hitch a ride, he could be out of the state by dinner.

Lucky for him his parents didn’t sleep in the same bed.  His mother slept on the sofa but still used the bedroom as a place to store her clothes. His father had gone for the day already, so he snuck into his parents’ bedroom. Sliding the clothing drawer open and rifling around until he found the small stash of money his dad saved for various luxuries, Ohanzee took the $8.76, deposited the coins in his empty left pocket (careful not to damage his timepiece), and tucked the dollar bills in his sock. Sure, his father would be furious, but he sorta figured the money could function as his inheritance.

When he finally stepped outside, the April morning was cool and wet.  Despite the refreshing weather, he still wore a winter coat, having to store all his belongings on his person like a turtle carrying his home on his back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I refer to him as "Ohanzee" because I've read that's his name and that the Gerhardts just call him "Hanzee."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the only chapter for with the attempted kidnapping and sexual assault tags apply.

The metal canteen slung across his shoulder bumped against his hip in a rhythm as he walked alongside the road that would lead him to Bismarck.  If only his legs were longer, he’d be able to go the same distance while expending half the energy.  “What ifs” wouldn’t get him anywhere.  Only responding to the problem would fix it.  But to his knowledge, there was no way to encourage his 4ft-tall body to grow, so that was that.

He was used to spending so much time alone. It was just tedious.

_The journey is half the fun!_

_‘Bullshit_ ,’ he thought, ‘ _I shoulda stolen Ned’s bike.’_

Not that he had anything against the other kids. They’d run around, play ball, laugh without him, but that was by no fault of their own. 

‘ _You’re a fuckin’ 9-year-old kid.  Why are you so goddamn sad all the time?  You’re supposed to be carefree not…’_

Not what?    
  
His father’s words rang through his ears like a church bell. Was he not supposed to notice his parents didn’t love him?  Sure, they’d never told him that directly, but he had a talent for picking up on hints. Well it’d only be a talent if he could put it to good use, and that’s what he was hoping to find in the city.

***

After 3 long hours of walking through sodden grass, he had no idea how much longer he could handle the same exact view on the horizon, but that didn’t matter because a car was driving his way for the first time that morning.  Ohanzee squinted against the wind, watching the green Chrysler slow to a stop on the road’s gravel edge.

The driver, a white man in a business suit and cream fedora, reached over and opened the passenger side door.

“Whatcha doin’ way out here, kiddo?”

“Headin’ to Bismarck.”

The man chuckled, “Heck, that’s quite a ways on foot. Why dontcha hop in?”

Without a word, he shrugged off his pack and climbed up into the car.  The Chrysler's exterior matched the green interior leather almost perfectly, which was certainly off-putting, but he’d be damned if he turned away a free ride.

The car pulled down the stretch of road at a fantastic speed, juxtaposed against its sluggish color and shape.

“What business does a kid like you have in Bismarck?”

“Lookin’ for a job,” he settled his pack on his lap, clasping his fingers together and sticking to his side of the bench seat.

“Don’t they have that…what’re they called…those Child Labor Laws now?” the driver scratched his jaw in thought, “Say, how old are you exactly?”

Something told Ohanzee to lie, “Thirteen.”

“A little short for thirteen, but who am I to say? I shot up like a weed by the time I was eleven!” The man nodded and almost as an afterthought, pointed to the radio, “Ah, feel free to see if you can get a signal.  All I seem to catch is static.”

He was not interested in playing with the radio dial or getting any physically closer to the driver than he had to. Tired of being on the receiving end of questions, he turned the conversation around, “What’s your destination?”

“I’m on my way out of the U.S.A!” The man smiled at his intentional rhyme, “Ever been to Canada? Beautiful, just beautiful. A kind of green you don’t get down here in the States, especially not in Bismarck.”  He tried to gauge Ohanzee’s reaction, but his passenger had taken to watching the endless plains roll past.  “Can’t beat the Canadian landscape, ya know. North Dakota—I’d say North Dakota is just a place to pass through on the way to your next destination.”

After several attempts at a full conversation, their small talk trailed off into travelers’ silence.  The driver, who’d finally introduced himself as Gale, fidgeted at the sight of mile markers.  Ohanzee kept track of the signs for Bismarck, and when they passed up the exit for the city, he knew it was no accident.

“You don’t wanna go to Bismarck, kid. Trust me.  They got all of—whatever they have in Bismarck—and _more_ in Winnipeg,” Gale set his hand on his passenger’s shoulder, encouraging acquiescence.

This strategy may have worked on another kid, a kid who hadn’t been gripping his knife for the past hour and a half while pretending to passively track cloud formations.  Gale wasn’t going to let him leave; he knew that now.

He slid his knife out of its tan sheath, slicing across Gale’s forearm before he had the chance to pull his hand off his shoulder. Gale’s instincts told him to immediately cradle his injured appendage close to his body and slam the breaks, veering the car off the highway in the process.  While Gale recoiled in shock, Ohanzee dove for the most vulnerable part of the driver’s body, gouging the man’s eyes with his blade.

Hesitation was a murderous concept. So many people paid with their lives from not acting quickly enough.  A second thought and Gale could’ve knocked him out, but no. Ohanzee was free, walking back toward the Bismarck exit, washing his hands with water from his canteen, and buttoning up his coat to obscure the quickly forming blood stains on the shirt underneath.


	3. Chapter 3

_Change shirt. Find a bus stop. Get the hell out of town._

He repeated the list to keep him in the moment. Those were the steps between him and his new life. 

 _‘Change shirt,’_  because a little Indian boy running around by himself in a bloody shirt wasn’t conspicuous, ‘ _Find a bus stop_ ,’ he’d been walking for about an hour and a half, keeping a sharp eye out for a bus stop or, even better, a train station that had a bathroom where he could change, ‘ _Get the hell out of town,’_ Bismarck wasn’t a safe destination anymore now that he’d blinded a man on the outskirts of the city. 

‘ _Maybe he’s dead_.’

Whether Gale was alive or dead did not matter to him.  The only important detail was what would happen if he were caught, and the way to avoid getting caught was to book it outta state.

After a painful amount of time vulnerable to scrutiny on what seemed to be the city’s main thoroughfare, Ohanzee found a public restroom that would have to function as a place to regain his bearings. A couple men washed their hands in the large, circular sink apparatus in the middle of the gray-tiled room. Ohanzee took the stall closest to the back wall so that he might be afforded the most secrecy.

He opened his pack’s drawstring top, pulling out a fresh shirt and a piece of jerky and placing them on top of his stolen map of North Dakota.  Various grunts and flushing sounds reminded him of his location, but he wasn’t afraid of being discovered.  No one could possibly think that a little boy running away from his home on the reservation who had just mortally wounded a goddamn pervert would be using a public restroom stall as a base of operations.  If anything, his age was an advantage; people underestimated kids.

His winter coat rested on top of his pack as he changed shirts, scrubbing any blood away that had seeped through to his skin. He slipped his coat on and stuffed the blood-spattered shirt down to the bottom of his pack so that no one would accidentally stumble across evidence of his crime.  Taking a seat on the toilet, he chewed off a bit of jerky and studied his map for the safest place to eventually stop and rest for the night.  Crossing the border into Canada was out of the question even if rationally that seemed like the best idea. 

A name drew his eye:   _Fargo_. The city lay on the border of North Dakota and Minnesota, a primo location to hide from cops and parents alike.

***

The bus didn’t cost as much as he thought it might. Although he’d much rather have saved the money and hitchhiked, he just didn’t have the time or energy to walk the 200 miles to Fargo.


	4. Chapter 4

The bus ride was a breeze compared to his previous traveling experience, which wasn’t saying much.  Two men sat behind him, snickering and blowing smoke from their cigarettes on his head.  A little girl about 5 or 6 a couple rows up from him sat next to her mother, wearing a simple dress covered in yellow flowers.  Her eyes wandered around the bus and landed on Ohanzee.  She stared, and something about him perturbed her so much that she tapped her mother’s arm in worry.

“Where’s the boy’s momma?” she indicated Ohanzee across the aisle.

“It’s not polite to point, dearie,” the woman tugged her daughter closer to her body, physically and mentally further away from the strange boy.  The mother shot him a wary look over her seat back as if to say, _‘You better not try anything._ ’

The hours inched by as he drew up a list of his marketable skills, but if the reactions from his fellow passengers told him anything, he was not feasibly employable in any positions requiring regular interactions with customers.

A slow, cold rain danced on the roof of the bus in an erratically predictable rhythm.  His wish for the bus ride to end as quickly as possible was granted with the caveat that he now wanted to nap in his seat to avoid walking through the weak piss rain.

Exiting the bus with his hands in his pockets, Ohanzee took shelter underneath the overhang of a barbershop entrance. A deep grumble issued from his belly.  He couldn’t go overboard on his supplies too soon; it was only—he took his timepiece out of his pocket—1pm!  There was only so much food he could cram into his pack, so he’d rationed 2 pieces of jerky a day. Dinner was the next time he could eat, and he had to will his body from internally protesting. 

Memories of hunger pangs’ past crept into his vision. His family didn’t always have enough food to eat, mostly due to his mother’s inability to cook and his father’s penchant for taking off for weeks at a time.  Most of mother’s family had died when she was young, so she had barely anyone to depend on in these stretches of solitude. That meant Ohanzee learned no one was looking out for him at an incredibly early age.  No, this current hunger was nothing if he factored in that one time he’d been so desperate he killed, cooked, and ate rats he caught rooting through the garbage. [Then unaware that rats carried disease, he was fortunate not to have been killed by his naïveté and desperation.]

Before he could consciously decide to begin his trek through Fargo, the barbershop owner opened the front door to his shop and berated Ohanzee, “Get outta here!  This ain’t a poorhouse and certainly no place for peddlers!”


	5. Chapter 5

A few young men unloaded produce on the side-dock of the grocery store chain under the tepid rain.  After scouring what seemed to be Fargo’s main street for work, Ohanzee gave in and figured he wouldn’t get anywhere without asking locals for pointers, which led him to the group of youths hauling crates of carrots, lettuce, and potatoes from the back of a truck.  No reasonable adult would give him the time of day let alone a job referral, so he had to make do with these boys who appeared to be in their late teens although they could’ve been older considering their obvious malnourishment.

The boys cackled while they worked, and at least one of them chewed tobacco, spitting on the pavement occasionally.

“Hey!” the largest of the boys set down his crate and approached the one chewing tobacco, “What’d I say about spitting that shit where we work? It’s disgusting, just smoke like the rest of us, huh?”

As the teen went to dispose of the rest of his chew, the largest boy noticed Ohanzee lurking near the corner of the brick building.

“Get outta here, kid.  And don’t even _think_ about lifting any of the goods.”

Ohanzee approached the leader of the laborer hierarchy.

“You heard me, _kid_. I said get outta here!”

“How did you get this job?” he wasn’t sure how to start, but that question seemed just as good as any.

This threw the guy for a loop, “What are ya gettin’ at?”

“How did you go about getting a job here?”

Another boy set his crate down and sidled up to the leader, “I think he’s looking for a job, Chip.”

This set a wave of laughter loose through the boys. At this point, they’d all stopped working to watch the tiny spectacle unfolding before them.

Chip tried to straighten his face and control his boisterous laughter, but he cracked once more after catching sight of Ohanzee’s very serious face.  Chip’s friend decided to take pity on the kid.

“You’re not going to find work here unless ya know somebody.  See, the manager here’s my uncle.  Ya want advice? Go back to the reservation.”

A third boy spoke up, “That’s not true, Laramie.”

“What’s not true?”

“Ya don’t always have to know somebody. If the work’s bad enough, they’re always hiring.  Hey! Ya think the Gerhardts would take him?”

“Shit, this kid’s smaller than a sawed-off,” Laramie grinned, sending Chip into another fit of laughter, clutching his cap to his head. 

Everyone had expected the small Indian kid to slink away in embarrassment by now, but Ohanzee continued with this new lead.

“Who are the Gerhardts?”

The kid with the chewing tobacco finally spoke up, moving boxes as he answered Ohanzee, “My dad works for ‘em.  Says they’re always looking for new guys seein’ as there’s a high turnover rate for guards and such.”

“Listen, Bill,” Chip turned around, affronted, “Just ‘cause they’re lookin’ for guys don’t mean they’d take _anyone_ ,” he gestured toward where Ohanzee had been standing, but the boy was gone. 

***

Despite his near indefatigable ambition, the day had been long, and at 5PM, he found his eyes drooping.  The grocery boys would be there tomorrow, and he could bother them for more information when he was at the top of his game. For now, he needed rest.

The blinking red neon sign of a motel mesmerized him. He only had so much money, but if he could find out where these Gerhardts lived, he’d have a job by tomorrow evening at the earliest.  Deciding he could afford to spend the advertized $4 on a room for the night, he shuffled across the street to enter the motel’s small office.

A small bell alerted the 20-something woman working the front desk to Ohanzee’s entrance, “Ah, hello there.  Are you looking for you parents?”  She wore her red hair up in a bouncy ponytail, tapping the desk with her overgrown acrylic nails. 

Ohanzee pulled some silver coins out of his jacket pocket and two dollars from his sock, placing the money in front of the woman as if that explained the situation, “I’d like a room, please.”

“Okay, kid, you gotta be 18 to rent a room. What are you, 5?”

“I’m 13.”  13 was much better than 9, which was only marginally better than 5. 13 meant he was almost grown-up.

“First of all, I don’t have time for this funny business.  Second of all—“

“You don’t have any other customers. How could you be busy?”

This gave the receptionist pause, blinking a few times before setting the boy straight, “Listen, I’d much rather be reading the Digest than chatting with you.  Now leave before I get the manager.”

He wasn’t sure how this particular stroke of genius hit him—maybe it was a fatigue-induced delirium—but he knew exactly what he had to say.

“I don’t think the Gerhardts would like that too much.”

This caught the woman’s attention, “What’d you say?”

“I’m here in Fargo on business.  Why else would anyone come here?  It’s a place to pass through.”

The receptionist looked him over, trying to understand that these words were coming from the person in front of her. Ohanzee tucked his left hand into his pants’ pocket, pulling his coat back to reveal his knife.

“Not to be disrespectful, but are you one of those people who don’t grow or something?  I once read a story on this man who looked like a kid but was really 35. Something with his glands, I think.”

Ohanzee nodded, assuming the role he’d created, “People underestimate kids.  You see how that would be...valuable to the Gerhardts?”  He didn’t even know what this family did, but he knew it was illegal and involved guns. 

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry.  I’ll get you a key, Mister…”

“De—Dimmick.”

“Alright, Mr. Dimmick, if I could have you sign the register here,” the woman took out a large, leather-bound book and flipped to a page with a spot free to sign.

He’d almost slipped up with his real last name, and he couldn’t use his first name either.  That would be a nail in his coffin for sure if the police could trace him directly from the stabbing in Bismarck to the Blau Motel.

 _‘What’s a good White name…_ ,’ he couldn’t take too long without arousing suspicion, so he wrote down the first name that came to his mind, which just so happened to be the President’s.

The receptionist turned the book her way, reading the guest's name and closing the creaky, leather cover shut, “Right this way, Mr. Harry Dimmick. You’ll be in room number 5.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

He’d dreamt about his parents.

Not a nightmare.  That would’ve been expected.  Instead he dreamed about a home where he felt that he belonged, and this was especially insidious in his nonconscious state.  Memories mixed with fantasy.  His parents blended seamlessly onto the emotions his mind manufactured; the masked faces expressed incredible joy that their only son decided not to run away after all.

As he woke from sleep in a stiff bed, he felt regret, but he quickly killed the thought once he realized that fantasy of a loving family was only that, a fantasy.

***

Returning to the grocery store, he found the same group of boys carting various goods around inside the back storeroom.  He ducked slightly underneath the half-closed rolling door, and Laramie alerted the room him with a friendly, “Hey, that weird kid’s back!”

Like clockwork, Chip stepped up to take control of the situation, reasserting his role as leader, “We don’t got any jobs for you, kid.  If ya can’t learn to keep off the property, I might have to teach you a lesson.”

Ohanzee stuck his hands in his pockets, unfazed, “I need to find the Gerhardts.  Do ya know where they live?”

“Jeez, kid, we were jokin’ yesterday.  Ain’t no work for you out there,” Laramie leaned on his dolly, rubbing some dirt from his eye.

An idea hit Chip, spreading across his face as clear as a sunrise.  He took Laramie to the side conspiratorially, “No, think about it.  If we send him out to the Gerhardts, he might never come back!  He’ll never annoy us again!”

“Yeah, but it’s not like we have a map, and I don’t exactly know street names, pal.”

Behind them, a lanky boy tripped carrying a box of merchandise, spilling its contents onto the floor in a pitiful display. Chip grinned at his coworker’s failure.

“We’ll send ol’ Dilweed out there with him, huh?” Chip pointed over his shoulder at the uncoordinated boy, “This is perfect.  He’d do anything to get in with us.”

Laramie patted Chip’s back in agreement, “God, maybe he’ll get escorted off the property.  It’ll surprise me if he manages not to shit his pants.”

The two turned back toward Ohanzee, all smiles.

“Today’s your lucky day, kid.  We’re not just gonna tell you where the Gerhardts live.  We’re gonna escort you right up to the front gate!”  As Chip spoke, Laramie cleared his throat, reminding his friend _who_ exactly was going to be carrying out this endeavor, “And by ‘ _we_ ,’ we mean Dilweed over there.”

“What?”  The boy’s face blanched in terror at the suggestion.

“You’re going to drive this budding businessman straight up to the Gerhardt gates,” Chip took Ohanzee’s shoulder and guided him over to where ‘Dilweed’ stood frozen, “Because ya wanna be _cool_ , right?”

Falling over his words, the boy wasn’t sure how to answer, “Yeah, man, of course, yeah, I want to be cool.  It’s just, Chip, c’mon—“

“Ah!  Are you saying you’re square?  That you're _chicken_?”

“No, I’m not chicken.  I just don’t wanna be shot is all.”

Chip blew a raspberry, “Bill, does your dad shoot guys for walking up to the gate.”

“Only if they’re armed and uninvited.”

“Then it’s settled,” Chip ruffled Ohanzee’s hair condescendingly, “You’ll take the kiddo for a job interview ASAP.”

“I’ve gotta finish work.  That’ll take a while…” Dilweed’s eyes fell on the broken merchandise.

“Oh, no sweat, Dilweed!  We can cover for you.  Actually, we might get more done without you here.  Just take your dad’s truck, and make sure you drive all the way up to the gates ‘cause we’re gonna quiz ya when you get back.  Bill here knows what the place looks like, so we’ll know if you’re lying.”

***

The condescension from that asshole had set Ohanzee’s teeth on edge.  Fortunately, he was good at shutting his mouth and keeping his face neutral because if he had any less self-restraint, he’d have fired off a comment about how powerless Chip was despite his allusion of leadership.  But none of that mattered because his future was near, and it had a name:  Gerhardt.


	7. Chapter 7

Dilweed’s Ford sputtered down a tree-lined road on their way across Fargo.  The ride was much bumpier in the old Ford than in Gale’s Chrysler, but Ohanzee preferred the company of the meek, aptly named Dilweed any day over that pervert.

“My name’s not actually ‘Dilweed,’ by the way. It’s just a nickname, and nickname’s tend to stick.  I’m Dillard,” Dilweed smiled at his passenger, eager for a positive interaction. The desperation clung to him like a perfume. 

“I’m Ohanzee,” he wasn’t sure if that was a cue to introduce himself, but for some reason, it felt like Dilweed actually cared to talk to him, probably because no one cared to talk to him either.

“Ohanzee?  That’s a neat name.  Not really easy to make fun of except if you just hate Indians, which I don’t so it’s all fine,” Dil paused, searching for a conversation topic, as it was obvious he did not participate much in polite small talk with people other than his grandma and Sunday school group, “Why’re ya looking for a job, Ohanzee?  Dontcha got parents or somethin’?”

“Nope.”

“I’m sorry, uh, what happened to ‘em?”

“Nothing, just don’t have any.”

“I’m not sure I understand.  Ya mean you’re an orphan?” Dil waited for an answer that wouldn’t come, “That’s alright.  You don’t have to say anything.  I lost my dad.  Well, my mom died when I was born, and my dad died when I was 12 so…just me n’ Grandma now.”

The silence was thick and companionable, almost important.

“Jeez, I don’t think I’ve ever…told anyone all that in one go, ya know?  Sounds sorta pathetic out loud,” Dil scratched his head, displacing the pale orange hair of his cowlick more than it had been originally, “You’re just real easy to talk to I guess.”

Nobody had really tried talking to Ohanzee. Sure, there was the occasional lecture about not stealing anymore or the routine command to finish his chores, but a real conversation was out of the question.  He didn’t have the words to describe his thoughts, and who wanted to hear a 9-year-old boy talk about his social isolation, need for validation, or his favorite story book anyway?

“I think it’s this turn…” Dil’s heart crept up into his throat with each curve in the road, trees ready to reveal the Gerhardt compound at any moment.

At the first sight of the gates, Dil pumped his breaks, rolling to a stop about 100 feet from the entrance, “Okay, I’m—this is as close as I’m gettin’, sorry pal.”

Ohanzee hopped out of the truck, dragging his pack behind him.  As soon as he shut the passenger door, Dil gave him a small mock salute and immediately put the vehicle into reverse. 

The situation felt much more final and high-risk without a ride back into town.  There was no lifeboat, safety net, plan B, whatever metaphor you prefer to fall back on in case of extreme failure, but he guessed failure just couldn’t be an option. 

***

The first guard to speak wasn’t the most welcoming.

“Who the fuck are you?”  

“Chill out, Sid, he’s just a kid,” the other guard replied to his partner. 

“I’m just saying, it’s real fucking weird to have a kid dropped off here of all places.  You don’t think it’s _suspicious_?”

“What’s suspicious about a kid?” The guy turned to Ohanzee, “Whatcha up to, little fella?  Are ya one of the kids’ friends?”

_‘Kids? This place had kids?’_

“Of course he’s not one of their friends! You think Otto, or Deiter for that matter, would let his children associate with Indians?” Sid kept his automatic weapon at the ready, prepared for anything the boy might try.

‘ _Otto. Deiter. Strange names.'_ He filed the names away for future use.

“Don’t be ridiculous—“

“I’m doin’ what they hired me for.” Sid aimed his gun at Ohanzee, “March on out the way you came, or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”

Ohanzee hadn’t even gotten in a single word before he was forced away from the entrance at gunpoint, but that didn’t dishearten him. From what he saw of the property, there was an expansive forest bordering the large house.  Two guards manned the house, but no one patrolled the perimeter of the forest, and based on his most recent interaction, he had about a 50/50 chance of being shot on sight by the Gerhardt’s men.

When he could no longer see the main entryway to the compound, he cut left into the trees, estimating that at a couple hundred feet into the forest he would have direct access to property, effectively passing up the gate.  In the meantime, he’d have to manufacture a simple, convincing story for the next set of guards to why he should be allowed into the Gerhardt’s home.


End file.
